


he who blots out your transgressions

by laratoncita



Category: The Following
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cemetery, Forgiveness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire takes Joey to Jacob’s grave (because even if she would have killed him if it came down to it, her boy only knows the good that was in Jacob).</p>
            </blockquote>





	he who blots out your transgressions

**Author's Note:**

> Response to kink-meme, bit.ly/17QPoJ9, posted there and at ff. Title from Isaiah 43:25-26. I own nothing.

It’s been months.

Months since she finally saw Joey again, held him in her arms and promised herself that she would never, ever let him go again, that she’d do anything in her power to make sure that no evil, sick men could take her child away.

Claire thinks of Margaret Garner and finally understands.

They’re different now, of course. They tried to brainwash her beautiful little boy, and she alone knows the things she would have done. The things she has done. It’s tormenting, it’s brutal, but at the end of the day she sees her son, sees the way Joey smiles and laughs and the little things that make his day and _knows_ that she can overcome this. It doesn’t matter if Claire and Ryan never work things out, if Joe still haunts her nightmares, if she is scorned and mocked by the rest. If she has Joey, if she can move on, then Claire knows she will be okay.

But Joey…Joey is a little different. That man – the one with the perfect hair, and the beautiful face, the one who fell in love with all the wrong people – he seems to still be sticking around. He has a grip on Joey, she sees it, and Claire is not okay with that.

It starts with a question. By now Jacob Wells has been dead for over a year, and Claire is in the middle of making grilled cheese sandwiches for she and Joey. She’s just put them down, turning to grab the sweet potato chips sitting on the counter, when she hears Joey enter. She looks up with a smile, an expression easily returned by her son. He seems shyer, sometimes, but she puts it down to trauma. Even now, it’s rare for her to stay asleep the entire night; more often than not, Claire finds herself staring at the ceiling for hours after midnight before dozing off.

She sees Joe and Emma and Ryan, blood and cars and gravel. She sees Roderick and wakes up screaming sometimes, but she’s always quiet enough not to wake Joey, even if she has to creep out of her room to double check that he is still tangible, still there in his bed and not with the madman that was her husband.

Those thoughts are too dark for dinner, though, so she pushes them away, says lightly, “Dinner’s ready! How was your day?” and pulls the seat out for herself as her son does the same. Joey is so much bigger, now. She sees the changes in his face and wonders if he’ll look like Joe, and all Claire can think to do is cry. Her baby is growing up.

“Good,” he answers, and takes a bite of his sandwich. Claire smiles; it’s so much easier to get caught up in the monotony of everyday life, to see Joey rub an eye with sleepiness and realize just how much she loves the boy. She takes a sip of her water before starting on her sandwich, and they’re quiet for a few minutes as they munch on chips and enjoy the silence. She’s wiping her mouth, reaching for a sliver of potato when he says it.

“Where’s Jacob buried?”

It takes her a moment, but Claire is able to connect the name with a face. She imagines the round eyes, the charming smile. The way he looked at Emma. The way he looked standing over her. The sudden urge to vomit surges but even though she sways a bit in shock Claire answers, “I’m sorry, what?” as if that would make what he said not exist.  


Internally she panics, because for all she knows that man had taught her boy to be a monster. She knows this, in her gut, because even if it was a barely there mention, the fact that Jacob Wells was a murderer is still a truth, and Claire will be damned if anyone thinks there was anything redeemable about the man. Why Joey would want to know where he was buried is a wonder, but Claire is so hesitant to say no to him now that she forces herself to pay attention to him as he speaks.

Joey shifts, nervous, and plays with the crust he’s left on his plate. Just like Joe, sometimes, and Claire hates herself for hating it. “Well,” Joey says carefully, like he doesn’t want to scare her, and Claire thinks of how she’ll wake up screaming into her pillow again, “I know he died right after they found me…and. I wanted to see him, maybe.”

Claire inhales, sharp, and he looks up, dark eyes worried. She says nothing, and the silence that stretches between them now is anything but comfortable, tense and heavy and why does Joey want this.

“He was my friend, Mom,” Joey says, quieter, “he was. He was nice to me. We used to play together.”

Oh, the things Claire would do if it turned out that – that that _monster_ saved her son’s sanity. But for some reason, something clicks inside of her, and she says, without really hearing herself, mind a thousand miles away, “I’ll find out where he’s buried, baby,” and go back to her sandwich.

She dreams of being buried by sand, that night; she tries to claw her way out of it, imagines the thinness of Emma’s neck, and when she hears Joey’s cry of, “Mom!” she jerks awake, finding herself alone in a dark bed with her son still asleep in the next room over.

 

It takes some digging, but finally Claire finds the place where Jacob has been buried. It’s near his parents home, and when she reads through the one article on his funeral, she sees that they paid for it, made it the most close-knit thing possible – just the two of them and a Catholic priest. She’d scoffed at that; how could a person who’d been raised to cherish all human lives turn against the same concept? Whatever religious ties he must have had turned out to be useless against the onslaught of Emma (because Claire understands the power of love).

Regardless of how she feels about Jacob, Claire writes down the cemetery’s address, and, bracing herself, tells Joey to dress nicely just a few weeks after he’d asked her to take him. She doesn’t tell him exactly where they’re going, simply that they’ve got to do something important and that she hopes he’s okay.

It’s a long ride, one that they spend in silence, with Joey leaning his head against the car window. Claire can’t stop herself from looking to the mirror just to convince herself that her son is still there. She doesn’t want to do this, but she’ll do it; she’ll do whatever she needs to to make Joey happy. Even if it means paying respect to one of the few men she’s glad is dead. Finally they come to a stop, and Joey seems to realize where they are as they approach the fenced in area. The road they take inside is gravelly, and she parks as close to the exit as she can.

Joey and Claire look at each other, and then to what stretches before them after they climb out of the car.

It’s a neat, picturesque cemetery, with long rows and ever other grave covered in flowers. Claire hopes for one selfish second that Jacob’s is one without any, before she convinces herself that she doesn’t mean it – it would make Joey sad. Instead she keeps a hand on her son’s shoulder as they pick their way through the grass, and she murmurs every now and again, reminding Joey not to step on the graves. After all the horrors one would think she’d gotten over all old superstitions when in reality, the spiritual side of anything is all she’s got left to cling to.

The process takes some picking through the graves, but about twenty meters from their car she spots it. By that point Joey had extricated himself from her grip, telling her, “We can find him faster,” before trotting off on his own. She straightens up from where she’s been staring at the engraved name, opening her mouth to call out for Joey, before stopping herself. Maybe she should just take Joey and leave, instead; they’re better off without Jacob and everything he did to them (or was it done for them?).

Claire bites her lip, and her eyes drift back to her former captor’s resting place. The headstone is white, nearly shimmery. She doesn’t know why she feels the need to, but all of a sudden she can’t help but think that she needs a moment with what’s left of Jacob, too. Maybe Joey needs to say goodbye to the man he only ever knew as ‘good,’ but Claire knows she needs something akin to that. Even though she wishes it weren’t so, Jacob’s left a mark on her life, too.

He _stole_ her _child_. Claire is no fool; she knows that, if she had had to, if it meant Joey would live, she would have killed Jacob. It didn’t matter the circumstances – if such a chance had been offered she would have taken it as a gift. But, for some terrible wonderful confusing reason, she owed him everything. He may have hurt her, pushed her to the ground, and threatened her, but ultimately he did her the greatest favor: he let Joey go.

Jacob, for all his stupidity in getting involved with Emma and the freak cult Joe created, let her baby _go_. Joey is alive, safe with _her_ now, thanks to Jacob. He shouldn’t have taken him in the first place, but Claire knows that. She isn’t sure where exactly she went wrong – with Joe, with Emma, with Ryan – but there are too many mistakes to trace. This is her life now, and Jacob simultaneously ruined it and gave her a chance to fix it.

Still, though, she knows that man he was. If she were to see him again, she’d probably hurt him in any way she knows how. It’s residue from the time he helped keep her captive (and she’s afraid it’s something she’ll never grow out of). Claire will never know what to think of Jacob Wells, because he hurt her when he took Joey – but he kept him safe until the very end, too.

For just a moment longer she stares at his grave, sees the simple form of his name and lifespan etched into stone with no other words, and she feels a pang. This man made a difference, whether it be good or bad Claire would never really be able to say. But he matters, she realizes, and then closes her eyes.

When she opens them, Claire takes a breath, and without turning, calls out softly, “Joey.”


End file.
